The Charlotte Journal

POETRY.

THE TOMBS.

The Bard, on New Year's day, spent an afternoon, in company with "two lovely ladies," at Green Mount Cemetery, and while there took down the following meditations with a pencil over the grave of one of the most amiable and angel-like of the tombs:

How sweet the thought that when to death and dust
We shall go down, as all creation must:
Sweet friendship oft will seek the sacred spot,
Tho' by the busy world we be forgot!

'Twas bliss to die like her, who slumbers here,
To clasp the hand, and feel affection's tear
Fall on her fading cheek-to bid farewell
To friends she lov'd, whose love no tongue may tell;

To mark beside her dying couch in tears,
A mother deeply lov'd thro' seventeen years:
And hear around her many a deep drawn sigh.
From those who griev'd that she was doom'd to die
So young, so gifted, beautiful, and fair.
Oh! this was bliss, tho' darken'd by despair!

Ah: yes, twas bliss to have the happy lot,
To be belov'd, and never be forgot:
For I have seen the friendless droop and die.
No lov'd one near his couch to close his eye:
No mother mourn'd him, and no tears were shed.
No sigh was heard of sorrow for the dead;
No crowd was gather'd round his grave-alone
He slumbers, unremember'd and unknown.

Oh: thus to die and pass away, indeed.
Is grief that bids the coldest bosom bleed!
Not such tho fate of her, whose spirit blest,
On angel pinions soar'd to realms of rest:
Methinks I see her, in her dying hour.
Fading away like some just blooming flow'r;
Beside her couch her much lov'd mother stands,
And, weeping, lifts to Heav'n in pray'r her hands,

Methinks I hear around her many a sigh,
Of friends, who mourn that she so soon should die.
Beneath this slab in beauty still she sleeps.
Where many a friend now wanders and now weeps;
Where fond affection loves alone to dwell.
And many a heart is held by feeling's spell.

When spring again shall come with balmy breeze,
And flow'rs shall burst, and foliage grace the trees,
Here shall the birds, a habitation given,
Send up for their holy hymns to Heaven;
Here in the tree, whose branches o'er her spread.
Or 'mid the garlands that adorn the dead;
Their dirges o'er departed beauty rise,
Re-echo'd back by angels in the skies;

Here shall the fairest flow'rs, that art can save,
Adorn the beauteous garden of her grave;
The first born flow'rets of the spring shall bloom,
In beauty, round her temple and her tomb.
Full many friend shall bow before this shrine,
And breath, in tears, affection's vow divine;
Yea, feel how keen are death's relentless darts,
That oft divide, and desolate our hearts.

MILFORD BARD